I'll close with this one.
Time.
"The Bullets.
Ernie the painter carved a bullet."
Not a pull it.
Let me start again.
"Ernie the painter carved a bullet from a small milk carton
and saved it for a rainy day when
everything would become wet and disintegrate
and drink from the sky.
Oh, denim bullet.
Oh, woolen bullet.
Oh, Venetian velvet bullet.
Sticky weather and polyurethane mitten bullet.
Bullets of sand, of salad greens, of dimpled cheek.
Bullets of blood cells rattling among the interior
of the human harp, of heartbreak, of baby wipes,
of hollow bone chime and mechanical pencil lead.
Bullets of the imagination released
like a silver waterfall from a sleeper's ear, bedtime harbor.
Infantry of bullets sewn of old sweaters
and its pledge to keep us warm.
Bullets that walk into the sawdust rink
and align themselves according to height and depth until one
clears its throat.
And then they're off.
Pow.
A singing bunch, lyrics about the world and the stars
and the universe and the promise to reject
the compositions of another violent kind of work."
Thank you very much.